


Duck-Apple

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Apples, Bath Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Potions, Rituals, Samhain, Sorceresses, Spells & Enchantments, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:53:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2678027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come Samhain, the remaining High Priestesses of the Old Religion conspire to see that Emrys and the High King of Albion finally get their due. (Or, the one where Arthur bobs for <strike>cock</strike>apples).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duck-Apple

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of loving silliness written for the October 2014 theme: [Curses, Hauntings, Harvests](http://tavern-tales.livejournal.com/7387.html) over at the never-a-trick, always-a-treat commentfic community [Tavern Tales](http://tavern-tales.livejournal.com/). Includes drinking, dub-con of the sorceresses/potions/erstwhile-innocent seasonal rituals tricked them into doing it (not that they didn't want to do it anyway) variety, mild man-bashing/male stereotyping, and perversions of childhood games and sacred divinations.

Another harvest season ended, another Samhain arrived. This year, however, there will be no sacrifice made on the Isle of the Blessed, no souls let slip through the veil. This year, the remaining High Priestesses are welcome and honored guests at Arthur's table, and though they do not say much, they see all.

The youngest, Morwenna, finally breaks her silence as the fifth course is presented. "He is a good king," she says. "But a lonely one." 

"Aye," murmur the others. It's there, lurking in the depths of his eyes, tugging at his smiles. He's well-made, clearly at ease in his own skin, but there is a restlessness there, too – and not for battle.

Elaine takes a slug of her wine. "We should help get him a wife."

"Nay," Glenys protests, following the direction of the king's gaze. "Not a wife, I think."

Emrys is wholly oblivious, popping roast nuts into his mouth at an alarming rate as he bends an ear to the courtier seated beside him. Laughing suddenly at something that's been said, he begins to choke, his face taking on an alarming hue as he claws his throat. 

In a trice, the king himself and no less than four knights have rushed to his side. Arthur steps back to let the largest haul him up and deliver a series of great whacking thumps between his shoulder blades until the obstruction is expelled.

The warlock, now red-faced more from embarrassment, Glenys would wager, is seated and plied with a fresh cup of wine. The knights return to their places, drawing many an admiring glance, and yet the king remains. He looms over Emrys' seat, head bent low, one hand on his shoulder, feigning both amusement and indignation.

"Ah," the other priestesses chorus as they take in the scene. "Nay. Not a wife." 

Elaine sighs, swiping a date from a passing tray. "Pah! And there I was looking forward to a spot of royal duck-apple."

"Who says there can't be still?" Glenys dabs wine sauce from the corners of her lips and eases back into her chair, smiling at her fellow priestesses.

Morwenna frowns. "But clearly they're…" she says, nodding towards where the king is still fussing over his sorcerer, and said sorcerer is fussing right back.

"Ah, well. Just because a game is rigged, my dear, doesn't mean it shouldn't be played."

* * *

Merlin's feeling pleasantly full and just the slightest bit wine-addled as he makes his way towards Gaius' tower with a plate of choice pickings from the feast. The old physician had taken to bed with a bad back earlier, his way of tactfully bowing out of awkward encounters with magical folk still bearing grudges against his complicity during Uther's reign.

Then he finds himself ricocheting off someone in the corridor, and wonders if he is, indeed, as much of a lightweight as Arthur and Gaius claim. He blinks up at…

"Er, Lady Morwenna, my apologies. I didn't see you there. Can I be of assistance?"

Her smile comes on slow and sweet. "Indeed you can," she says, reaching for the dropped plate as Merlin struggles to his feet. Miraculously, not a morsel's out of place. And now there's a flagon of mead, as well.

"You can enjoy this, Lord Emrys. It is a gift for your part in returning magic to these lands. It is brewed from the waters of our sacred well. We are certain it will bring you joy."

Merlin grins. "Oh, um, thank you," he says, nodding as she slips past him down the corridor. He thinks he hears her giggle, and wonders if she's off to tell her fellow priestesses that the mighty Emrys is a bumbling sot.

Then he gets a whiff of the stuff in the flagon and decides he doesn't care. It smells like honey, yes, but also – wildflowers, fresh-baked bread, his mother's peat fire, Arthur's fresh sweat. He doesn’t think to be suspicious until Gaius takes a whiff and practically flings the flagon across the table. 

"Sacred it may be, but mead it is most certainly not," Gaius says, nose wrinkled in distaste. "Forgive me, my boy, but that smells like piss, and I can’t imagine it tastes much better. You'd do well to avoid it."

Unfortunately, by this point Merlin's already drunk several cups.

"Sodding sozzeressez…" is the last thing he remembers saying before passing out.

* * *

Arthur is a warrior, born and bred. He's got a healthy fear of bad odds and creatures with multiple heads, but after all that he and Merlin have been through, there is little that truly unnerves him.

Still, when the High Priestesses surround him after the feast, insisting on repaying his hospitality by divining his intended, he feels completely out of his depths.

"It's completely painless," they assure him, refilling his cup with something's that's not wine but smells delicious.

"And discreet. We can conduct the ritual in the privacy of your chambers." 

"All we'll need, sire, is a tub, some fresh water – "

"And a dozen apples."

He tells himself that, even if it's meant as a prank, it is sure to be a harmless one. If any of these women truly wished him ill, surely Merlin would have warned him and…

It's only after he finds himself in his chambers with no less than three women he's not related to, not altogether decent, wrists bound and eyes covered, that he feels a flicker of unease. 

"You say this is a common practice amongst the people?"

"Oh aye," one of the women responds, securing his blindfold. "I'll wager a goodly number of your subjects were born thanks to matches revealed at the duck-apple. Ah! Here's Maisie with the fruit now. Ready to spill your heart's secrets, my lord?" 

He plays along, sniffing each apple in turn as it's held up, gamely announcing the names of eligible foreign princesses and prominent women at court. They've told him that the apples will be marked in a way known only to them – which he takes to mean magic, unless the whole thing is, indeed, a hoax – and disposed of after. 

"We're not after causing a scandal, sire," they assure him, and he can't help but laugh, thinking on the one name he doesn't dare utter. Scandal, indeed.

* * *

Merlin is waiting to be born. The world is wet and warm and dark, just a glimmer of light on the horizon, and… He opens his eyes, blinks several times, and hastily re-evaluates.

Not a womb but a bath, Arthur's bath, to be more precise. Arthur's bath in Arthur's chambers, surrounded by – 

"Ssh," a woman's voice whispers in his ear. "Neither speak nor move, or you'll spoil the game."

Merlin recognizes the voice as Morwenna's and opens his mouth to protest, to demand answers. Then he spots Arthur coming towards him.

Arthur who is naked save for a simple shift, snowy-white, the sort meant for keeping vigil. Arthur who is blindfolded, hands bound behind his back. Arthur who is taking small, shuffling steps, flanked by two of the High Priestesses, compliant yet every inch a man, as he was with Morgause, and – inexplicably – laughing. 

"…and assuming I am successful," he is saying, "how may I be reassured that my affections are returned?"

"Oh, that depends," Elaine replies. "But in your case I should think it will be quite obvious."

"Whatever you catch you must take to your bed, sire," Glenys adds with a bold glance at Merlin. "Place it under your pillow, sleep on it a week and all will come right."

If Merlin is shocked at the words, he is doubly shocked at the force of Arthur's sigh, at the way he halts, seemingly unbidden, near the edge of the tub. "If only it were that simple," he mutters.

"Have faith, sire," Maisie says, meeting Merlin's eyes even as she squeezes Arthur's arm and helps him to his knees.

* * *

Truth be told, Arthur was expecting something more along the lines of a Wheel of Fortune scenario, perhaps with added indignities involving hot wax or chicken entrails – divination not being a subject he knows much about – so this business with the apples isn’t so bad.

The High Priestesses have provided a cushion for his knees, there is a familiar, pleasing scent emanating from the tub, and someone's evidently been in to build up the fire. Arthur can hear it roaring and crackling away in the grate, and though his feet and shins are bare, he's in no discomfort. 

"So, shall I – " Arthur stiffens. "What was that?" 

"What was what, sire?" says the woman on his left.

"That noise. Odd clicking, smacking sound, like…" Arthur tilts his head, listening intently. Now that the sound is gone he's unsure, but for a moment there he'd had a vision of Merlin's face, gormless with exhaustion and thirst. 

Arthur clears his throat, gives a shake of his head. No doubt Merlin's out cold by now, snoring into his pillow, felled by all the rich food and strong drink. "Never mind. What next?"

In answer the woman on his right gives his shoulder a squeeze, then releases him. She begins to sing, and soon the others join in.

_Duck-apple duck-apple  
One two three four  
Five pips at each heart  
Be it dozen or score.  
Duck-apple duck-apple  
Six seven eight nine  
Ten times you may taste  
Ere you catch what is thine.  
Duck-apple duck-apple  
Part your lips wide  
Open your heart and  
Let true love inside._

On the last few lines Arthur feels wet fingers on his face, tracing patterns on his forehead, smearing water over his mouth. When he parts his lips, as much to take a fortifying breath as to abide by the verse, one of the women anoints his tongue in a similar fashion, breaking from her singing to whisper something in the old language.

"You have been sanctified this night, sire," she adds. "This body, this mouth – all that you do with it is sacred, and carries the courage of your heart."

Arthur shivers, though not from cold. The words are intimate, almost more so than the touches. He feels his blood rising, warming his cheeks, rousing his cock, making his skin hyper-aware of all that is touching it. His loose, finely-woven shift. The courser fabric of his bonds. The velvet nap of the cushion. 

He is mightily relieved when, with a final repetition of the last verse, the sorceresses announce that they will retreat to the antechamber to await his selection.

"No peeking," they remind him, tapping his blindfold. "You must use only your wits, and your mouth."

* * *

The situation beggars belief.

Merlin swears he would have extracted himself from it, not to mention Arthur's tub, long ago if it weren't for Morwenna's whispered words, sharp nails and the fact that he has absolutely no desire to take on a bevy of powerful sorceresses wet and stark bollock naked. 

Plus the bath feels nice, and he's still a bit muzzy from whatever foul poison she'd slipped him.

Plus Arthur looks lovely like this, so _sincere,_ despite his earlier jollity. Even if it's just sincere good manners rather than sincere belief, Arthur's clearly having a moment, and Merlin doesn't want to spoil it for him. 

So after nearly giving himself away with an audible jaw-drop, Merlin clamps his lips shut and squeezes back against the far edge of the tub. 

Morwenna gives him a funny look, but nods graciously and mind-speaks her thanks before rising to join the others in their singing and, in Merlin's humble opinion, wholly inappropriate pawing of Arthur's face. 

He cranes his head this way and that to see the runes they trace on Arthur's skin, but despite his suspicions he can see no harm in them. Peace, protection, good harvest, light in darkness, all the usual seasonal claptrap, except… 

Merlin catches several repetitions of something to do with fecundity – no, virility – joy and… _mouths_? 

He frowns, forgetting himself as he squirms, causing the nearest apples to bob and knock against one another and water to slosh up the sides of the tub. He swears it's getting warmer each time one of the priestesses dips her fingers in. 

Tearing his gaze from Arthur, Merlin watches the golden sparks of magic become swirling tendrils, spinning the apples round before sliding off and seeming to soak, instead, into his skin. Not the water then, but he, himself who feels too warm, succumbing to their magic and a rising lust. 

Suddenly the quiet, modest breaths he's been taking don’t seem to provide enough air. He watches Arthur's cheeks grow pink, all too aware of his own swelling cock. He watches a drop of water catch at the bow of Arthur's lips and wets his own with the tip of his tongue. He hears the whispered words as plain as if they'd been dropped into his own ears and has to swallow a moan thinking about all the things Arthur might _do_ with his body, his mouth…

"No peeking," they remind Arthur before traipsing off towards the antechamber. 

They all nod at Merlin in passing, save for Glenys, who also winks. In his head, he hears her smug, _"You needn't fret, Emrys. We seek only to amplify, never to alter. There is no enchantment, no compulsion stronger than man's own desire."_

Then they are gone, and Merlin finds himself alone with Arthur, achingly hard in a tub full of apples named for women who might – who _will,_ his half a functioning brain reminds him – break his heart one day, unless he conjures some courage of his own.

He finds it in the sight of Arthur leaning in, open-mouthed, panting slightly as he braces his chest against the rim of the tub, lowering his face until his nose is just kissing the surface of the water.

Clearly there is only one choice to be made. 

Merlin holds his breath, heart pounding so loud he's sure Arthur must be able to hear. Then, ever so slowly, he slides lower in the water, spreading his legs and bracing his feet against the sides of the tub, lifting his hips until his cock – just the blunt, rosy tip – breaks the surface, bobbing fleshy and obscene amidst the fleet of glistening apples.

* * *

Arthur hovers with his face over the water, waiting for his breathing to calm, trying to ignore the persistent itch of lust.

He needs a strategy. Given the size of the tub and the relatively small number of apples; given that the apples will shift about when the water's disturbed, and he has no way of tracking or trapping them…

Bad odds. Definitely bad odds. Yet Arthur can't help thinking that the sooner he completes the ritual, the sooner he'll be free to send the High Priestesses on their way and seek the relief of his hand. 

"Right then," he mutters. He smiles, recalling Merlin's usual 'wisdom' in situations involving bad odds. "In headfirst and hope for the best?" he says, opening his mouth wide and leaning in.

His nose bumps up against something solid. When he angles his mouth towards it, however, it slips away, and he's left with a sputtering faceful of water. It's warm enough to bathe in – another unexpected kindness – but it doesn't lessen Arthur's frustration. He tries again and again with much the same result, the apples sliding away after the first tantalizing nudge at his cheek or chin. It feels like they're mocking him, somehow, though Arthur knows that this is impossible. They are only apples, after all.

He reminds himself that he has fought bears, boars, immortal armies, and all manner of magical beasts; he will _not_ be bested by a bunch of insentient fruit.

* * *

"What on earth is he doing?" Maisie whispers, peering at the small scrying bowl they've set up in the antechamber.

"Making a proper go of it," Elaine says with delight as the king yet again comes up sputtering. "Ooh, rotten luck, dear. Little more to your right."

"No, not the _king._ I meant Emrys."

"Ah," says Glenys. "He's a savvy one, for all he looks as if he just fell off a turnip cart."

"You mean a naughty one," Morwenna chimes in, edging Maisie aside for a better view. "By the Triple Goddess, his cock's as fat as a – "

"Now who's being naughty?" Elaine cuts in, snickering.

"Oh, hush, the lot of you." Glenys shoos them back from the bowl, curling her hands round it protectively. She smiles down at the sight therein. "What you call naughty I'd call… having a _healthy_ respect for the old ways. Do you not listen to the language of your own spells?"

Maisie frowns. "I thought it was meant to be symbolic."

"I thought it meant they'd be onto kisses and confessions by now," Morwenna says, leaning in to peer over Glenys' shoulder. "Not that I'm complaining."

"There's many a man who finds it easier to use his cock than his tongue, my dear."

"Oh, aye. I just hope Emrys knows what he's about. The king looks to have a mighty jaw, and all his own teeth."

* * *

Merlin is in agony. Arthur's splashing and rooting around like a pig at trough, all bold nose and chin with that wide, greedy mouth in between. He's wet and ruddy-cheeked – clearly flustered – and he's come _this_ close to discovering both Merlin's cock and one of his knees.

Panic had set in on both occasions; Merlin had pulled away as silently as he could, trying to calm his agitated breathing.

The panic's no match for his desire though, and after seeing Arthur's pink, open mouth so close to his cockhead, it's only the fear of getting bit that keeps Merlin from thrusting up in the midst of the current fray.

Instead, he grabs one of the apples as it goes bobbing by. Then, when nothing magically untoward happens, he snags another, and another. He clutches them to his chest, watching as Arthur's frustration mounts, wondering if he _really_ dares.

* * *

"Och, the big cheat!" Maisie exclaims, just as Morwenna murmurs, "Clever boy."

"Clever, yes, but surely he's not allowed to do that?"

Glenys smiles at the sight of the powerful warlock hoarding three, four, five apples to his chest like a greedy child. 

"He is Emrys," she says, shrugging, "and they say Arthur is the Once and Future King. I don't expect the usual rules apply."

* * *

"Ha!" Arthur says when the idea comes to him. He lifts his head, gasping around the water streaming down from his soaked blindfold and hair. A warrior deprived of his sight must think creatively, exploit any and all knowledge of his enemy to gain the advantage.

Stems. Stems are the key. 

He waits for the water to settle. Then he begins again, not chomping and chasing the meat of the apples, but attempting to come at them gently from above, poking about with his tongue to see if any stems are intact.

He licks several apples in this manner – or perhaps the same apple several times? – to no avail, thinking how foolish he must look. He persists, though, because it's what warriors do. Plus he figures that, stems or no stems, like this he has a better chance of trapping one in place long enough to get a decent grip on it.

On his next attempt, Arthur's tongue catches the edge of something smooth and damp. At second lick, he feels a surge of triumph. This apple seems smaller than the others, a bit spongy – not to mention salty, which is odd – but it carries that same delicious scent he'd noted before. It stays put when he explores it with his tongue, probing the dimple on top for any traces of stem. There are none to be found, but by this point he's confident he could fit the whole thing in his mouth. 

He's opening wide, intending to do just that, when he spares a thought for his pride. What will it say about him if he chooses the smallest, mushiest fruit? The High Priestesses have assured him of their discretion, but surely he'll be judged and laughed at, as will whichever unfortunate princess he's unwittingly saddled with the association. 

Not that he has any intention of wooing her. Not that he has any intention of wooing _any_ of them. It seems he is quite committed to carrying the most ardent and hidden of torches for his former manservant and current warlock, thank you very much.

Arthur heaves a gusty sigh, then immediately swears, reaching out with his tongue to reassure himself that his quarry hasn't drifted away. It bobs under his tongue, sliding away only to surge up and nudge at his cheek. 

"There you are, little smushapple," he murmurs, turning his head. Then, "No time like the present."

He's just begun to mouth at it, learning the full shape and texture of it before sucking it into his mouth – the skin feels loose, wrinkled and velvet rather than tight and glossy; he's reluctant to bite down lest he break it – when the bizarre warmth of it registers. It's warmer even than the water, which is odd. As is the fact that it _won't come away_. 

When Arthur tries plucking it from the water, it resists, then simply disappears, pulled from his mouth as if by force. A log pops in the fire. There is a series of faint thumps and splashes, then Arthur becomes aware of another sound.

Immediately, he jerks back from the tub, trying to get his feet under him, wrists straining at their bonds. This time, he's not imagining it. There _is_ someone in the room with him, he can hear their breathing – muffled and erratic, yes, but definitely breathing – and as soon as Arthur frees his hands, whoever it is is going to be very, very sorry.

* * *

"Arthur." It comes out in a horrified whisper, low and hoarse, but Merlin knows that he's been heard, for Arthur instantly stills, shoulders back, nostrils flared. His cheeks are beet red, plastered with tendrils of damp hair. The wide collar of his shift is askew, the exposed skin covered in a faint sheen of water or sweat. Merlin watches him take one heaving breath after another.

"Merlin," Arthur says at last. "You." His voice is devoid of all emotion, his tone eerily flat. 

Merlin's mind skips back through the years, snags on the memory of sliding out from under Arthur's bed. 

_"You've been under there this whole time."_

_"No! Course not. No."_

_"Because if you were…"_

He hadn't believed in the threat then. He's never believed in Arthur's threats, has always been able to see right through them to whatever emotions he's trying to suppress, but if Arthur threatens him now…

Now, he'll believe him. 

Merlin shivers, telling himself that he probably deserves whatever he gets, sneaky sorceresses or no. He's deliberately put his cock in the way of Arthur's mouth – his hot, blessed mouth – and it's too glorious a thing to regret but he can't imagine Arthur will feel the same.

"Merlin," Arthur says, louder now, commanding.

"Arthur, please – " Merlin begins, but Arthur speaks over him, slowly turning his head towards the empty chair beside the fire.

"I trust it goes without saying that if you tell a single soul about this, you'll be taking your meals in the stocks for the foreseeable future."

"Arthur, I'm – "

"You're barred from the tavern in any case, and – "

"I swear, I didn't mean to... be here, I mean. Last thing I remember I was drinking the mead that – "

" _And_ from now on you must wear the hat and attend me, as you used to, on all feast days," Arthur goes on, "because clearly you can't be trusted to eat and drink on your own. Now, kindly sit back down, _shut up_ and let me finish the ritual in peace."

"What? But – "

"Merlin, _please,_ " Arthur grits out. He bows his head, sagging against the tub. His next words cause any thought of further protest to dry up in Merlin's throat.

"Just, let me do this, all right? I want to. Even if it's only for this one night, I want to know…"

Merlin gives a soft gasp. He grips the sides of the tub to keep from reaching out – and from slapping himself for being such an idiot – because it’s patently obvious that Arthur knows he's not sitting in that chair.

"Yes," he whispers. "Of course you must… finish."

Then he's too busy trying not to hyperventilate to speak at all, because Arthur's leaning over the water once more, as proud and fussy as a cat. His generous lower lip parts from its mate, pink tongue flicking out to wet them both.

"Now then," Arthur says, his voice shaky at first, then settling into the smooth, rich murmur that he uses on skittish horses and distraught subjects, "where did you get to, my bold little smushapple?"

* * *

Arthur feels as if his face is burning up, his heart beating out of his chest. But so long as he has the blindfold on, so long as Merlin is willing, he can pretend…

Tomorrow they can blame it on Samhain, on all the wine and meddlesome witches. But for now he's content to nose at Merlin's cock like the greediest of whores, to lap the salty wet from its tip and suckle what he can reach of the thick shaft below.

He relishes the sound of every labored breath, the way Merlin's trembling restraint sends ripples across the surface of the water.

Merlin forgets himself, groaning as Arthur gathers all he can into his mouth. Arthur hollows his cheeks and begins to bob up and down, heedless of the splashing water.

"Omnnngh. Ooh, yes, just like tha– "

Arthur pulls off. He thinks he hears a whimper, _knows_ he hears something pounding the side of the tub.

"Um, I mean, yes, sire. Sorry, sire. It’s just that you almost had it. The… um, apple."

"Did I now?" Arthur dearly wishes that his hands were free. He wants to feel Merlin's trembling limbs under his palms, to grip those narrow hips and guide the meat of him up, in – to swallow him down until Arthur chokes on his pleasure.

"Mm-hmm. A dollop more suction I think," Merlin says. "You might even use your teeth."

"Oh really?"

"Just a little. Gently, down below."

"Well, seeing as you claim to be my best advisor…"

* * *

Morwenna is the first to break the awed silence. "Now there's something you don’t see every day," she says, fanning herself with the tail of her shawl.

"Aye," murmur the others, gazes fixed on the scrying bowl. For all these two men are ridiculous, they are oddly beautiful together, oddly right.

There's love there, lurking in the care they're taking to maintain the illusion, and intense passion in the moments when they forget.

Elaine nudges Glenys. "We should take our leave now, I think."

"Nay," Glenys protests, holding up a finger. "Wait one moment. I want to be certain there'll be no misunderstandings."

"I daresay Emrys is about to plant his seed in the king's gullet," Morwenna says, head bobbing as she tracks Arthur's movements. "Surely there can be no misunderstanding about that?"

"Men are a strange breed," Glenys says. "And great men most of all. Ah, here we go…"

They all bow their heads respectfully as Emrys' face contorts into something wild and almost pained, his hips bucking up from the water as Arthur takes him in deep and doesn’t let go, the tension plain in the line of his neck and shoulders. 

The vision in the bowl shimmers, sparks dancing across the surface. The apples, those still in the tub as well as those Emrys has dropped on the floor, glow a bright golden-red before burning to ash, and the cloth binding Arthur's wrists and eyes falls from him in tatters.

The two men stare at one another, breath matching breath, the one dozy and slackjawed, the other practically quivering with unslaked lust.

"Oh for crying out loud," Maisie whispers, rolling her eyes. "Is it _really_ that hard to just – "

"Shh," Morwenna chides. "The mighty Emrys is about to speak."

* * *

"So…" Merlin says, slumped boneless in the bath, still gulping for air. He's not sure if he's expected to keep up the pretense now that Arthur's blindfold is gone, but frankly he can't be arsed. Not with how Arthur is looking at him, terrifying and terrified both, so devastatingly regal, even with wrecked hair, blotchy cheeks, and a wet, puffy mouth.

"The High Priestesses said that whatever you catch, you must take to your bed, sire."

He watches as Arthur's expression shifts, the terror fading to be replaced by something more wary, but no less intense. 

Arthur gives a stiff nod, rubbing at where the bonds have marked his wrists. "A week under my pillows, was it?"

Merlin shakes his head, pushing himself up to his knees, crawling forward until he can take Arthur's wrists in his hands and press healing kisses onto the chafed skin.

"I think we can do better than that, sire."

Arthur stills them both, resting his face on the crown of Merlin's head. Merlin feels the warmth of his breath, the nervous vibration in his chuckle.

"What then, a month? A year?"

"Better than that," Merlin insists.

" _Two_ years?"

"Try five," Merlin whispers, butting his face into Arthur's chest, pressing his lips to that delicious hollow at the base of his throat. He's touched it a thousand times in the course of his duties, but never, ever in the way he's wanted to. Until now. 

He draws back, just enough to look Arthur in the eyes. "Or, you know, forever," he says. "Not _under_ your pillows though. Shan't be able to breathe."

* * *

In the antechamber, the High Priestesses beam at one another over the scrying bowl.

" _Now_ we go," Glenys says. "Time a for snack, I think."

"It's hungry work," Elaine agrees.

"The stubborn ones always are," Maisie says, yawning.

"Couldn't we stay and watch just a bit longer?" Morwenna pleads. "I think the king is going to give Emrys a spanking."

Clucking her tongue, Glenys vanishes the bowl and all other traces of their presence, and drags Morwenna towards the door. They tumble out into the corridor, much to the befuddlement of the guards.

Maisie smiles and curtseys at them, making small talk as Elaine locks the door and Morwenna works the spell to make them forget what they've seen.

"And what they're about to hear, I think," adds Glenys, frowning at the door. "Emrys is bound to be a bit shouty. All Dragonlords are."

Grinning, Morwenna weaves a muffling charm into the spell. Then they all link arms and traipse off towards the kitchens, singing softly as they go.

_Duck-apple duck-apple  
One two three four  
Five pips at each heart  
Be it dozen or score…_

* end *


End file.
